Wedding
by Samuraibrarian
Summary: A speed drabble-y, KotOR-flavored response to ImagineYourOTP.'s prompt: "Imagine your OTP on their wedding day, and both of them are jittery and nervous and wondering whether or not this was such a good idea—until they get to see each other's faces."


Bastila scowled down at Meirah through her mouthful of hairpins. "You're going to wrinkle your gown."

Meirah glanced at her fists, white-knuckled and knotted in the fabric at her waist. The silk broadcloth, dyed the pale, intense blue-green of glacial ice, made her scar-scored hands look dull and ashen by comparison. "Huh. So I am." The negotiations had come to a close a month ago. She would be soon be posted to the revived Jedi enclave in the polar regions of Telos. That arrangement granted the Coruscant's Jedi Council the benefit of one of the Order's most remarkable minds, while putting thousands of light years between her unorthodox approach to the Force and any center of Jedi political power. It granted Meirah, whose efforts to fit the Republic for a coming Sith invasion were finding little traction at the center of Republic and Jedi influence, a chance to develop alternative strategies, and to live openly with her beloved, without Jedi interference.

Juhani obligingly rescued the skirt from her clutches, and smoothed it down. "Last minute nerves?"

"I am ready to be married. That commitment was made, in every way that matters, half a decade ago. It's the _wedding, _and what comes after_,_ I'm not so sure about."

"As far as I knew, you and the Admiral are quite comfortable with what traditionally comes after weddings. Am I wrong?" Bastila arched an eyebrow. Mission, busy with removing Meirah's outer robe from a garment bag, made an exaggerated gagging noise.

Meirah chuckled. "Careful, 'Stila, people will tell you that you sound like me. And that? That, I'm more than comfortable with. The negotiations to get here though..." she sighed and tried to string her thoughts into a coherent line. "I know this is the right thing for us. I don't know if it's the right thing for everyone else. I don't want to believe I'm selling the future of the Republic too cheaply out of personal selfishness, or for that matter, exhaustion. But somehow it feels like I am."

"There's a funny symmetry to it, really." Bastila replied, deftly securing a halo of plaits to her comrade's head with decorative pins."The Revan-that-was singled Telos out because she knew that its people had a special role to play in the fate of the galaxy. Malak didn't understand...To think that anyone with Jedi training could believe that terror and turbolasers can compare to the workings of the Force..."She gave a derisive snort. "His-and Karath's- interference couldn't alter the promise that she saw in Telos. It delayed it at most, may have even furthered it by accident. In brokering this agreement, you will be fulfilling that promise."

"And lest anyone think that a mere coincidence, you're here to pledge yourself to one of Telos's foremost native sons." Juhani added. "Once, the only reality I could trust was suffering. Even for a disciplined mind, enough hardship makes that seem right. A certain Jedi showed me my error. Black-and-white thinking is easy. Believing that the world will be saved, if only you consent to suffer, that is easy. What is hard is being awake to each moment and, in each moment, making the best of your choices. No one could watch you deliver a lesson to padawans, or see you and Carth together in a quiet moment, and not believe that you are making the best choice."

"You make a persuasive argument." Meira tossed her head, partly to check the stability of Bastila's work, partly to shake free her lingering doubts.

"Now, I don't know anything about the Force or Jedi philosophy," Mission said, "but I just spent _hours_ getting this robe laundered and altered, then another half hour picking Big Z's shed hairs out of the hem with tweezers. If you back out of this now, Mei-mei, I will personally vibroshank you in the face."

"Well, when you put it that way-"

The door creaked open. HK-47 poked his head into the room and made a sound that was disconcertingly similar to that of a biological being clearing its throat. "Announcement: Master, the guests are all in place. The officiating meatbags are inquiring after you."

"Time to go, then." Bastila appraised Meirah's coiffure with a critical eye. "That should withstand a firefight if need be. But don't go testing it out just because I said so."

"No promises, but I'll do my best."

Meirah stood, and allowed Mission to drape the outer robe over her shoulders. The heavily-felted blue-white wool, irregularly studded with tiny crystal beads, sparkled like a snowfield when she moved.

"That's got to be the most impressive archivist's uniform in the history of the galaxy." Mission said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "No one will think of abusing a holocron or making out in the stacks on your watch." She reached into a belt pouch and handed Meirah her sabers.

. . .

"Dad, you're about to wear a track into the floor. Are you okay?"

Carth had covered the room, corner to corner, twenty three times in the last twelve minutes. It wasn't as if a person could sit down in dress blacks without picking up lint and wrinkles anyway. His collar was soaked through with sweat.

Dustil had shrugged out of his plain SIS grays into a loose-fitting robe and tunic in the same shade. "I guess, even when you've done this before, it's still nerve-wracking, right?"

Carth came to an abrupt halt. "That's a lot of it."

"You still miss her, Like I do."

"I do. And right now, I feel like a traitor."

"Ten years is a long time to be alone." Dustil scooped a pair of collar studs off of the tray bourne by T3-M4 and began to work them into place. "I saw her last night. In a dream."

"Really? What did she say?"

"She said that Meirah talks to her, though she doesn't know it's really her. She told me to expect that two of the strongest and most influential people in the Galaxy would be spending what was supposed to be the most joyful morning of their adult lives fretting over whether they were doing right by a million people who have no business being involved in that decision." He made a wry face as he wiggled one of the studs before it popped into its socket. "She said that you two deserve each other in all the best and worst ways."

The set of Carth's shoulders softened "That sounds about right."

His commlink buzzed. Dustil frowned "I thought you were leaving that thing with-" Carth scrambled for the device. Only three people had that frequency, and one of them was in the room with him.

"Onasi here."

A hint of anxiety leaked through Admiral Dodonna's imperturbable calm. "Which one of you invited an entire column of Mandalorians? They're forming up around the main entrance. And their CO's got Jedi-issued credentials.

A familiar growl cut in over the comm. "Didn't think I'd miss the festivities, did you, Republic?"

"That would be too much to hope for." Carth grinned, despite himself. "Admiral, Mandalore is a personal friend. I expect that he will conduct himself and his men with discretion. We should show the same courtesy."

"I'll trust your judgement, Onasi. For now."

"Time to get this thing underway, 'Pub. Lots of people walking by in expensive-looking clothes. It 'd be a shame for more of them to soil themselves in terror."

. . .

The procession couldn't have had a more motley composition if they'd tried. A pair of honor guards, one a Wookiee prince, the other a Mando'ade clan chief, led the way down the cloister. Two co-officiants followed, a naval grand admiral and a human elder in the unornamented robes of a Jedi Padawan. Behind them, in single file, were another officer, in the black and scarlet dress of a junior admiral and a second, younger Jedi, clad entirely in shades of ash gray. They fanned out and took their places on a low, circular dais in the center of the courtyard.

A second group of celebrants appeared. First was a Rutian Twi'lek in a sleek, dark gown. Behind her, two Jedi in umber-colored robes flanked a third in stark white. The majesty of the display was somewhat interrupted when, midway down the cloister, one of the Jedi hissed "This is a procession, not a swoop-bike race. Slow down!"

The Jedi in white paused while her attendants arrayed themselves on the dais, forming a loose ellipsis behind the bridegroom. She pushed back her hood. The mask of impassive determination on her face dissolved into an expression of pure, unguarded joy. The bridegroom drew an audible gasp.

She covered the remaining distance with a series of steps that bore a suspicious resemblance to a duelist's advance. He scrambled forward to meet her, forgetting the attendants, the congregation of guests, everything but her. He cradled her face in both hands and lowered his forehead to touch hers.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, eyes beginning to brim over.

"Easy there," she said reaching up to brush his cheek with her fingertips. "We made it. We're here." She paused, throat tight. "Now, let's let them marry us before they change their minds again."

From the center of the dais, the old Padawan cleared his throat and addressed the assembly.

"Now, friends, what in the seven hells am I supposed to say to follow that?"


End file.
